"What do you think, Mommy?" my husband asked, posing as if he were advertising the latest line of men's wear.

"Mmmm," I said, scrutinizing his choice of clothing in the dimly lit hallway. "You look like a real fashion plate."

We had spent the day tearing down our garage to make way for our addition. Now we were running off to a lu'au, a church fundraiser.

We loaded ourselves into the car and made our way to He'eia. As I slid out of the passenger seat, I gazed over at my husband, who was smoothing the front of his shirt.

The evening sky was tinted with a purple hue. The shadows of the coconut trees' leaves danced on the asphalt. But the silhouettes that swayed against his shirt could not mask the bold splotches on it.

"Honey," I asked, stopping dead in my tracks. "What is that?"

He was wearing a Sig Zane navy aloha shirt with a pale-blue tiare (Tahitian gardenia) pattern. Just above the pocket was a smattering of discolored turquoise flecks.

It looked as if he had purposefully tossed Hawaiian salt on the fabric and let it bake in the sun.

"Oh that," he said with a chuckle. "I think my washer woman put Clorox in the load."

"Listen, you know darn well that I wouldn't add Clorox to a batch of colored laundry," I retorted.

"In any event," he said, "I was able to disguise it by simply using an edible blue marker."

"Why does this not shock me?" I muttered under my breath.

"And in case you're wondering, why my pants are so dirty," he said, "it's because the dogs jumped on me just as I got into the car."

On his right pant leg, muddied paw prints highlighted the taupe-colored shorts. It was as if he had used an iron-on doggie print stamp to spruce up his lackluster outerwear.

"Lovey, don't you think people will notice?"

"That's a beautiful thing about a Hawaiian lu'au: Come as you are, and you're always accepted."

I chuckled as we sauntered up the rise to the pa'ina (party).

In David Malo's book, "Hawaiian Antiquities," a footnote section describes what would happen to kapa when it became soiled or dirty.

"The Hawaiians distinctly belonged to that class of the Polynesians which may be called the tapa beaters, in distinction from the weavers. When soiled or dirty, tapa was thrown away."

I've made several unsuccessful attempts in the past to practice this custom. My husband has refused to "throw away a perfectly decent article of clothing."

I'm sure that tomorrow morning I'll see his Sig Zane shirt in the dirty-clothes pile along with his favorite tar-stained Kaya's T-shirt and threadbare nylon shorts.

Reach Ka'ohua Lucas at Family Matters, 'Ohana section, The Advertiser, P.O. Box 3110, Hono-lulu, HI 96802; fax 525-8055; or at ohana@honoluluadvertiser .com.